A/N: Thank you, Enaid, for your brilliance, and for walking around in my head.
Thank you, Lisa, for your insightful comments and awesome beta skills.
Gifts
During the time of the war with the Great Serpent, Matthal, a modest young man possessed of a kind heart, wished to give to his tribe in return for all he had been given. He approached the chieftain and asked what the tribe most needed.
The chieftain, Cadfael, bowed his head gravely. "Much have we lost in this war with the Great Serpent, and what we need most is not something that can be given. We need courage and strength to continue this fight; we need to remember what hope feels like."
Giving the words much thought, Matthal went in search of that which the tribe most needed. He wandered far from home, but everywhere he went, he saw only chaos and war, destruction and death. Always, he felt compelled to assist others, even as he searched for gifts that would aid his tribe.
One day he found himself in a small village. A lone man stood fighting the armies of the Great Serpent; a lone man who would not give up. It was the bravest sight Matthal had ever witnessed. He came to fight beside the man and together they defeated the last of the dark sons of the Great Serpent.
After the battle, he turned to the man and bowed in homage of such bravery. "I am Matthal of the Quennel tribe. I am honored to be in the presence of such heroism."
"I am Gyfuhart, last of my clan. Have you need of my sword?"
"It will be my privilege to have your company as I journey."
Matthal explained the nature of his quest and Gyfuhart vowed to help in any way he could. Days passed as they continued to travel the ravaged lands. Matthal began to despair of finding a gift for his tribe. He decided he must return to the tribe without a gift, for he had been gone far too long and he missed his clan greatly.
As they traveled towards his home, they came upon a number of the dark sons of the Great Serpent and he was struck down, a grievous wound to his leg. A man came upon them as they fought and he assisted them. When the last of the dark beasts had fallen, the man carefully tended Matthal's wound and then hoisted him on his back.
"Tell me where you live, young man, and I will deliver you safely," the stranger announced.
"I am Matthal of the Quennel tribe and I thank you for your assistance."
"I am Gebberd, from the North Wood tribes."
Matthal had never seen such strength in a man. Without effort, Gebberd carried him many miles each day as his wound slowly healed. The three men formed a deep friendship on their trek, a friendship that bound them in ways even they did not fully understand.
Upon their return, Matthal sought out Cadfael and bowed low in his imagined disgrace. "Most venerated father, I have found no gift worthy of the tribe."
Cadfael looked at the two men flanking his son. "You are wrong, my child, for your gifts are rare and speak from a true heart. You have brought the gifts of courage and strength, and with them, travels hope." A Chasind tale by Travis Kenji, Chieftain of the Quennel tribes and Grey Warden, as told to Leonie Caron Mac Tir on the birth of Gareth and Beryl Mac Tir***
~~~oOo~~~
"You'll have to talk to me sooner or later," Aerin stated quietly, stepping closer to her. "Tell me what you are afraid of, my lady hawk, and we'll face that fear together."
Oh Maker, she wanted to. She wanted to turn and throw herself into his arms and let her love for him pour out in a torrent of words and touches. She wanted to believe that somehow they could strike a balance between duty and love. That the moments of joy she discovered with him would not be the last, merely a beginning. Her thoughts tumbled, warring with her heart, wanting nothing more than to love him without fear.
She turned, swiping surreptitiously at a few errant tears, surprised by their presence. Searching for words to explain, she opened her mouth and closed it again, shaking her head, unable to trust her voice.
Aerin took a step closer, still not touching her, but she could feel his warmth seeping into her. She forced herself to meet his eyes and she was profoundly moved by the emotion in them. Gone was the teasing glint, replaced by a raw need that made her stomach dip. The usual amusement that rode so easily in his expression was gone, stripped away, and she saw the depth of his feelings for her.
Laria's heart felt as though it was pulling in one direction, her head in another. She forced herself to look away from him, to try and gather her scattered thoughts as she sought a path through her confusion. And then her father's voice came to her, his words a gentle reminder and chastisement:
The other is to open your heart to the possibilities of love, Daughter. The Maker has given the heart such capacity to love, and I won't have you deny yourself that joy out of fear or a sense of duty.
She had promised him that she would try, and she attempted to make herself believe that she had done so. She shivered and closed her eyes. She had tried right up until the emotions had become too frightening and then she had hurried back to the safety found in performing her familial duty, hiding behind her family to avoid facing how daunting the prospect of loving someone was. In those moments she knew if she allowed herself to open completely to Aerin she would find the kind of love her father had found with her mother, and that truth was not liberating, it was paralyzing.
Don't forget to laugh, don't forget to play, and, most importantly, don't discount love.
Another tender admonition from her father, written in his last letter to her, intruded into her chaotic emotions. He had obviously foreseen the very dilemma that she now faced. Had he faced it when he had fallen in love with her mother? Laria started to turn away, to look at anything other than Aerin, but found herself caught, pinned by the honest, passionate intensity of his gaze.
Her father's words repeated in her head, whispered through her blood to her heart. His words, the gift of his loving wisdom even after his death, gave her an answer and she felt herself smiling, even through her stubborn tears. "You're right. I'm afraid," she began, her voice catching as she reached out a trembling hand, allowing shaking fingers to brush lightly across Aerin's cheek. She drew courage from his unflinching belief in her.
"I'm afraid," she repeated, her voice gaining strength, "And I'll need you to remind me that duty doesn't have to turn me into a martyr."
His eyes closed, dark lashes sweeping down to hide his expression, but she heard the ragged sigh that escaped from him and her heart ached at the sound. "I'm not as brave as you are, as Father was. I'm not as strong. I don't know how to love someone that way," she added, but the words held less fear in them then they had when she'd first thought them, felt them.
He drew her gently into his arms and she leaned against him, willing herself to relax her tense muscles. His lips traced a line from her neck, up to her jaw and across to her lips and she forgot how to breathe as his lips moved against hers, their pressure growing as the kiss deepened.
Finally, he pulled back and studied her. A slow, teasing smile crept with catlike grace to rest on his lips. "My lady hawk, I will happily spend each moment of every day convincing you that you are brave, strong and loving, especially when you look at me in such a manner."
"Yes, I should imagine you'll enjoy the lessons far more than I," she answered in kind, emboldened by the devotion she saw in his gaze.
His laughter warmed her. "You see right through me, do you?"
"Not entirely, Ser Wolf, merely in some matters."
"So you would not oppose my spending the rest of my days in this endeavor?" he asked with an irrepressible smile.
Laria's heart and stomach lurched in an unholy union at the implication, but before she could respond, the air erupted with the sounds of her returning family, including Bethany's sweet voice calling out, "Lark! Lark, where are you?"
Hearing a chuckle of amusement from Aerin, she tossed a glare at him as she made her way to the door. "Do not even think about it," she warned sternly.
"Never," he promised with another chuckle.
Anything else he might have said was lost in a flurry of hugs, kisses and warm banter as the Hawkes reunited. Laria's relief at the interruption was nearly as great as her delight in having her family home again.
Even Carver condescended to a quick, fierce hug and went so far as to allowed her to kiss his scruffy cheek. She was surprised by the rasp as she rested her cheek briefly against his, before stepping back to greet her mother. When had Carver's beard gone from downy pretense to thick, dark shadow? How had she missed that event? What else had she failed to notice? A moment's panic assailed her. How would she ever manage to be the caretaker of her family and still have time for her relationship with Aerin?
Her father's words once again came to her and she took several steadying breaths as she glanced across at Aerin, who was talking quietly with her mother. She felt herself smile, a bright joy coming to push the fear aside, at least temporarily. She would find the strength and courage to fight for him, even if it was her own conscience that she fought. And he would be right there beside her to help her in that fight, she thought with another flashing smile.
A short time later, gathered around the table drinking tea and eating the last of the pasties, Laria listened to the hum of voices, drowsy and content, her hand resting lightly on Aerin's thigh, his hand curled around hers. This, she thought, was what hope felt like.
~~~oOo~~~
Dawn was still an hour away when Carver eased himself out of the house. He didn't dare try and saddle Mab, not that she would allow him to ride her even if he had. She had an implacable dislike of anyone on her back other than Laria.
He held his breath as he moved past Reginald, settled in his customary roost near the chicken coop. The last thing he needed was for the rooster to crow and wake everyone. He didn't let his breath out until he had hopped the fence and started down the rutted lane to Lothering. Maker, he hoped Laria wouldn't come riding to his rescue; the entire town would laugh at him. If he hurried, and if Constable Grant was obliging, he'd have done the deed before she was even aware he was missing.
He'd thought about leaving a note. He wasn't such an arse that he wanted to worry her, but he'd decided against it. Bethany knew something was on his mind, but not what and he'd been careful not to mention the sentence that Grant had imposed on Laria. Not that he'd had to be all that careful; she'd spent most of the time gazing at Ser Bryant, a seeming stranger to Carver, with her soft expression and ready smile. And he didn't care how many times Bryant Sinclair told him that he was Aerin to his friends, he wasn't going to get chummy with a templar. No, he hadn't planned to take her place in the militia for the sake of their love, he'd done it because it was his duty to protect the family every bit as much as it was hers.
By the time he'd made it to the outskirts of Lothering, the sun was heralding a new day and the cocks were crowing. Without a break in his stride, he passed the chantry, briskly climbing the slight hummock to the constable's home.
The door swung open on the second knock, the constable still struggling with the laces of his shirt. "What's amiss, young Hawke? Trouble at the farm again?"
Young Hawke? Would he ever not be young Hawke? When he'd been younger, before his growth spurt, he'd been known as little Hawke and he'd hated it, hated the constant reminder that he couldn't quite measure up to his sister. Ever. Being called young didn't hold quite the sting but it infuriated him just the same.
He growled, "I'm here to talk about my sister's sentence."
Grant motioned to him to enter, and Carver followed him into a cramped kitchen where a tea kettle was quickly set to heat on the brazier. "There's no need to come flying in here all bent out of shape, Carver. Your sister may have taken the men's lives in self-defense, but she needs to recompense the families, according to the King's own laws. She couldn't afford to pay, so unless you've come in to a fair bit of money, there's naught else to do."
"Bloody oath! Those men tried to kill us all, tried to burn us out! During a blasted drought!" Carver wasn't sure where his fury had come from, but it boiled up and spilled over in angry words as he pounded the rickety little table they were seated at. "Any other country in Thedas would thank her and pin a medal on her, not force her into the militia!" he continued, faintly surprised to be defending his sister to anyone.
"You think I don't know that? I didn't get this job by being ignorant, nor blind. But the law is the law and if I make an exception for one, I'm honor bound to do the same for others."
Carver focused, trying to recall how calmly his father had spoken when angry, how logical he became. He leaned forward and spoke softly. "She's the head of the family with Father gone, Constable Grant. What if, Maker forbid, a war comes to Ferelden and she's called to muster? Mother relies on her and she's lost so much, I don't want her to lose my sister, as well. I can take her place and –"
"What? Are you daft? Your sister will have my head on a pike by nightfall if I allow that, Carver Hawke!"
"No, she won't," Carver promised. "I know her; she might be mad for a bit but she'll calm down and see it makes the most sense. I want to do this," Carver reiterated. "I'm old enough and I know the law, I can take her place. The law doesn't care who fulfills the judgment as long as a member of the family pays the debt."
"Why are you really doing this, Carver?"
The question, asked with a quiet intensity, caught Carver by surprise. Why was he doing it? The truth skittered away from him, but he knew it was there, unspoken. He looked at the constable, who was waiting and watching, his dark eyes piercing through the veil of lies to stare at Carver's truth.
"What does it matter why I'm doing it? Maker, just accept me in her place!"
"You feel guilty that it wasn't you that killed those men," Grant stated with conviction.
Carver leapt out of his chair, tipping it over in the process. "Just bloody do it, and let me worry about my reasons," he snarled.
"Not until I talk to your sister,"
It was all falling apart. Maker, he'd been a fool to think this would be any different than anything else he'd ever tried to do. Carver stood straight, hands clenched at his sides. "Just let me do this one thing for her, Ser Grant," he pleaded quietly. Maker, he just needed to do something right, to feel like it was right. Just for bloody once.
"You'll need to bring Laria's paperwork back so I can annotate the change. She'll have the mustering schedule as well."
Carver's heart took a dip. He'd planned on telling her after he'd taken her place. He was not about to ask her for bloody permission. There was no chance of her agreeing beforehand. "Just write up a new order and I'll make sure you get the old order back."
"Simmer down, Carver and sit down while you're doing it. Give me a minute to think this through."
Hope skipped across his chest as he sat down, waiting as patiently as he could for Grant to think it through. From the moment he'd first thought of the plan it had continued to grow in importance until its success was as vital to him as the air he breathed. It was difficult not to pound on the table and yell for the man to hurry up and decide something.
He gulped his tea, scalding his tongue, mouth and throat in the process, causing his eyes to water. He swiped furtively at them. Maker, he hoped old Grant didn't think he was crying. He drummed his fingers on the table until the constable frowned at him. After that he tapped his feet impatiently, feeling as tortured as those times when he'd been forced to sit through a formal tea as a youngster. It was all he could do to keep from squirming.
Finally, Grant cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice gruff. "You're doing a fine, brave thing for your family, Carver. They should be proud of you. You should be proud of yourself. Give me ten minutes to draw up the new judgment and then you'd best get home before the family wonders where you got off to."
Carver felt his mouth fall open and he slammed it shut, feeling pathetically grateful for the man's words. You should be proud of yourself. Usually the only time he heard those words were when his mother was scolding him about something he'd done or not done.
Ten minutes later, he left Constable Grant's, the new judgment folded neatly and tucked into his pocket. His footsteps quickened as he headed out of Lothering, only slowing as he neared home. His mother would be hurt and Laria would be furious and he'd have a fight on his hands, but he'd be damned if he'd let them take away the feeling that rested in his chest. It felt as if he'd received a precious gift and he wouldn't let anyone take the feeling away from him.
His confidence stumbled a bit when he saw Ser Bryant's horse in the paddock when he entered the yard. Bollocks, he thought grimly. Just what he needed…his sister would have a champion in her corner. The bright morning dimmed, a shadow painting the ground as a cloud passed in front of the sun.
"Carver!"
~~~oOo~~~
"Are any of his possessions missing?"
Laria, pacing, clasped her hands tightly in front of her, and stopped long enough to glare at Aerin.
"Are you asking me if he's run away from home? No. Nothing is missing, except Carver. It's not like him to just disappear without explanation. Bethany, are you sure he didn't say anything to you that might help us?"
Laria tried to still the fear in her heart, the mocking chant that blamed her for another failure. She stopped in front of Bethany, who was huddled in a chair, tear-stained face turned to the wall. With a shrug, Bethany glanced down at her hands, which were busy shredding a fine lawn handkerchief.
"Bethy? What is it?" Laria asked gently.
"He…he was very upset about the judgment passed on you and he…well, you know how he can be, but he didn't…I don't know that it means anything, Sister. He was just very quiet after he heard."
Laria gave her sister a reassuring smile. "We'll find him, Bethy. I'm sure he's gone off fishing or maybe to visit Peaches."
"Maker preserve us," Leandra said, looking up from her sewing. "Such a grasping young woman."
Grasping young women would be preferable to a missing son, but Laria held her counsel. She'd been surprised by how calmly her mother had taken the news that Carver had gone missing. She'd fixed breakfast and talked of inconsequential things during the meal, but Laria hadn't been able to eat a bite. She'd been about to saddle Mab and go in search of her brother when Aerin had arrived.
"We should check down by the river. Perhaps you're right and he's just gone fishing and lost track of time," Aerin suggested, his voice calm and steady.
"Of course!" she exclaimed, angry and embarrassed that she hadn't already thought to check there. She was out the door and halfway down the hill before she realized what she might find there. She halted abruptly, her hands fisting in her skirt, shaking her head.
"I can't…I…it never occurred to me that he might have dro…" she trailed off, swallowing against a sharp stinging in her throat that announced tears were forming.
She forced herself to continue down to the riverbank with the same stubbornness that held her tears at bay. She had to know, had to make sure for herself that he wasn't there, that he hadn't been caught by a strong current and pulled under. Every year they lost several townspeople to the river. Not Carver, not Carver, not Carver, her mind prayed as she neared the Drakon.
Aerin walked beside her, placing a steadying arm around her waist. "I'm sure he's fine, wherever he is, my love," he reassured and there was a sureness in him, a conviction that acted as a balm, soothing her nerves.
There was no sign of Carver along the banks, the soft soil marred only by the early morning birds and the distinct pattern of a raccoon, whose tracks seemed almost like a child's handprints. Her breath whistled in relief and she sagged against Aerin.
They were almost back at the farm when they saw a tall man hurdle over the low fence and stride towards the house.
"Carver!"
She nearly tripped over the long hem of her gown and she impatiently caught at the folds, lifting them as she ran across the damp grass, her relief so great she could barely breathe. She came to a breathless stop in front of her brother, bending, hands on knees to catch her breath.
"I've…are you alright?" she finally managed, looking up to meet his eyes.
"Stop fussing. Can't a man have a bit of time to himself?"
"You might have at least left a note," she chided coolly.
"Sure. Every time I have to go out to the privy, I'll do that," he retorted, belligerence in his stance.
She flinched. "Where were you, Carver?"
She saw the slight twitch of muscles in his jaws, and his eyes slid away from her gaze to stare beyond her. "You've given us all a scare, Carver. I think we have a right to know where you were."
Silence stretched tautly as sister and brother scowled at each other. Laria felt her nerves tighten as she waited, refusing to give her brother the satisfaction of being the first to speak, to break the silence. She could feel Aerin shift beside her but she wouldn't be distracted, determined to wait out her brother.
The Hawkes were nothing if not stubborn. That thought, flitting in to dislodge her angrier ones almost made her smile. Malcolm Hawke had said that so many times as they were growing up, especially when she and Carver would butt heads and obstinately refuse to relinquish their anger until the other had apologized or conceded defeat. The memory further softened her expression and she finally spoke, a light hand on his arm.
"I'm sorry, Carver, I was just worried."
But he wasn't ready to forgive her, not for being the oldest, she recognized that in the dark look he gave her and her hand fell way, a yearning for a different relationship pulling a sigh from her.
"Fine! You'll find out soon enough, anyway."
"I'll leave if it will help," Aerin offered quietly.
"What does it matter? She'll just tell you later anyway."
Laria frowned, about to give him a set-down for his ill-mannered reply but Carver spoke again, reaching into his pocket as he did so and thrusting a folded sheet of vellum into her hands. She turned it over, only half hearing him as he rambled on about what he'd decided to do for the family and that it was all legal. The seal of the constable's office held the vellum closed and she found her hands were trembling.
"I – I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said," she whispered, but she knew. She knew by the seal what he'd done. The world tipped, swayed, and continued on as she stared up at him, seeing the adult he would become in his steely gaze.
"I've taken your place in the militia," he announced with proud defiance.
"You…why would you do that? Why would you sneak off and do that?" she whispered, bewildered by the action, afraid to hear the answer, unprepared to accept that it was her fault that he'd done it.
"I did it for you, Laria, for the family. Maker, why won't you let me grow up and do what I can to help?" he raged, the young adult becoming a hurt young boy.
No words came to her. She was grateful, outraged, touched, and terrified, proud of him for taking the step and furious with him for putting himself in harm's way for her. Emotions spun in her head robbing her of her voice, and as the silence stretched between them again, it was Aerin who spoke, his voice as calm and warm as a summer afternoon.
"What an extraordinary gift to give your family, Carver. I know Malcolm would be proud of the courage and strength it took for you to volunteer to take Laria's place."
A/N: Travis Kenji is a character from The Lion's Den and the tale he tells is one out of my imagination, based very loosely on an Icelandic Edda.
Quennel is old French and means: oak tree dweller
Matthal is a biblical name and means: he who gives
Cadfael is Welsh and means: War chieftain
Gyfuhart is old English and means: gift of bravery
Gebberd is old German and means: gift of strength